


How Do You Like Your Eggs In The Morning? (I'd like mine with a kiss)

by telemachus



Series: Chasing Cars [7]
Category: Queer as Folk (UK)
Genre: Baby, Breakfast, Fatherhood, Friendship, M/M, Pre-Series, Unrequited Love, Vince never says anything, decision time, the pens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 19:05:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9562454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: Pre-series.Of all the rather unlikely people to become a father - Stuart Alan Jones.....Or, Vince makes his best mate a breakfast to cure a hangover, served with a side-order of longing.





	

“It’s the pens,” I hear you say as I let myself in, and I shake my head, knowing you are standing staring at the mess you made of your wall last night, a list of reasons for and against in beautiful technicolour, “I’ve got to get rid of the pens.”

You’re glad to see me this Saturday morning, here with my cheap supermarket carrier bag of breakfast things, glad to watch me potter about in the kitchen no-one but me ever uses, glad to smell the coffee, the toast, the butter melting.

Nearest things to food you ever buy are flavoured condoms.

You come through as I’m whisking, and stand there, rubbing at your hair with one towel, the other precarious on your waist.

I’m not looking.

I never look. I’m not the kind of bloke to peek at his best mate.

Fourteen years, and I never have been.

“She’s mad,” you say, and I sigh, wondering what now, “completely mad. Wants a baby. Desperate.”

I shrug,

“Women,” I say, like either of us knows anything about them.

“Wants me to – donate,” you say, and the pause, the uncharacteristic coyness tells me everything you think and feel.

Longing, excitement, fear of commitment, fear of failure.

You’re flattered.

And I’m chuffed that it’s me you’re talking to.

I shrug again, pouring the mixture into the pan, grating cheese quickly while it heats.

“Could do,” I say, “would hardly be the first time you’ve had one off the wrist – or been to a clinic – just a bit – different.”

You snort, and I smile.

Always the jester, always here for your amusement.

“Not like you can’t afford it,” I say, reminding you these things – kids – cost money. You can’t just walk away from responsibility all your life.

I won’t let you.

“Be quite cool, really,” you say, thinking about it as you pull out a chair, sit down, lean back nonchalantly.

Your towel slips further, no tan-lines on your perfect skin.

But I’m still not looking.

Turn the mixture, add the cheese, fold and wait.

You stretch and reach out for the juice, pour, a final water droplet running down your arm, tempting me to lick it away, the sun through the window glinting highlights in your hair.

Not that I’m looking.

“Could do,” you add, and I make an agreeing noise as I butter toast, letting you talk yourself, sober, into the decision we thrashed out last night, drunk, before I poured you into bed – still without looking – and slept on your stylish but so uncomfortable sofa.

“After all,” you go on, “poor cow. Only got a few more years, then she’s past it, eggs scrambled. Not like us, my lad. Got all the years in the world, we have.”

“God, don’t put it like that to her,” I say, laughing against my better nature, as I put your plate in front of you, turn to bring my own to the table, turn back.

And am struck silent, once again, by the beauty of you as you slide the fork from your mouth, the melted cheese dribbling thick sticky whiteness down your chin. As your sharp uneven teeth leave a half-circle in the toast. As you lick salt-butter from your fingers, a shining trail of drips down the centre of your chest towards that towel.

Christ.

I’m not looking, I’m not.

But I sit hastily, and I’m glad the table is solid.

As though you have no idea what you do to me, you grin.

“Nice omelette, Vince,” you say, “you’ll make someone a lovely wife,” and I grin back, let your words roll off me even as my throat dries and all the wasted potential clogs in my mouth.

 

.


End file.
